Detour
by Beyond The Sea x
Summary: "She finds he is her favored detour." C/E oneshot. Rated T because it's a little smutty. Though, it's really not.


an: Rewriting _It's a Plague_ prompted me to write a little companion piece. So, feel free to reread the mentioned fic (still on my page) and form your opinions. This takes place shortly after Influence, and is C/E. Let me know what you think?

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything.

* * *

It starts like this one Saturday night.

He is to head home, but he finds himself twirling in the barstool of his favored detour. He finds her there, too.

She's pale and only tipsy, though she is quite hellbent on achieving drunkenness. His smile catches her eye, and invites her over. She flicks her gaze to his dark eyes, as blue as the ocean floor. She finds the same exhilarating fear in them as she does in the bottom of the Atlantic.

He tells her of his troubles, how he'd like to be able to sleep tonight after the day he's had, but knows he can't. She nods in return, knowing well enough what that can be like. He parts his lips, and she wonders what he tastes like, if he wonders about her.

Lately, he has been.

He asks why she's here and she's honest when she tells him she's had trouble sleeping, that she's tired but not for rest. She tells him she wants to bury herself underneath a mountain of snow for the winter, but her mind will not allow it.

She sighs and it's when he feels her breath on him does he realize how close they've become. It sends a cold front down his spine.

_Come home with me_, he tempts in her ear when she leans into him. He knows he melts her insides when her eyes grow heavy and dark. She doesn't hesitate, and feels nothing but warmth.

He doesn't know what comes over him but he's rough, and learns she likes it when he pins her against the wall. She likes the way his hands have a mind of their own and the way his tongue maneuvers down her until she feels him between her thighs.

He likes the way she moans and the way she runs her fingers through his short hair, guiding him.

She pouts when he brings himself back to her level. He's about to kiss her when she laughs and tells him she likes him on his knees.

It's a hard kiss, needy and breathless, that finally pummels them into the motions. Harder, faster, louder... She clings to the satin beneath her, and he clings to her, breathing in the scent of her crisp perfume. He brings her over the edge, and drains her of energy. He loses it himself when she breathes her release in his ear.

He watches as she catches her breath. She can't bring her eyes to focus, but she turns to him anyway. He laughs at her exhaustion, teasing something along the lines of how it feels to be with a real man.

When he falls asleep and off his high horse, she finds the resting thing in her chest has awaken.

**...**

It continues like this a few weeks later.

It's Tuesday, and she's running about her apartment. Phone in ear, she searches for a piece of paper with greater importance than her employment contract when she stumbles upon his business card. Suddenly, she doesn't seem to mind the impatience of the person on the other end of the line. She perches herself on the arm of her recliner as she dismisses the phone call.

The card is worn, and she cant believe she's held onto it for so long. She thinks of him then, how he had been just as cocky and quite green. Now she thinks of the tattoo on his bicep, and the other on his forearm. She recalls waking up before the sun to him tracing her curves and tasting him in the morning.

She is to relax for the remainder of the evening, sip her Merlot and reorganize her dresser. She has never been one for relaxing, though, and doesn't stop herself from calling him.

He doesn't give her a moment to breathe between their endeavor, let alone speak. She doesn't mind; it's been some time since she's felt so alive. It's been too long since someone has sought after her the way he does.

She moves with his rhythm, something he can appreciate. They've become balanced and tuned, and she often thinks of the same moon he does each night. She begins to wonder if he knows just what he's stealing from her. She wonders if he wonders at all.

**...**

She spends Friday night lecturing her heart.

It's only when she feels his presence does she look up from her desk. Her green eyes are flooded with worry and he knows she's exhausted her conscience for tonight.

He offers to take her home, but she knows better than to agree. She knows, too, that they are nothing but chemical and electrical impulses sprouting through bags of meat and bones. In the end, when she's tangled in his sheets and he's kissing her not because he's in the moment, but because he wants to, she finds he is her favored detour.


End file.
